It was lovely and it was fun and it was, in a way, very much mine. But perhaps that was the problem. It was a little too comfortable, a little too familiar, a little too much of me in it and it in me. So there I sat, wading through shallow bits of pleasure and beauty and homey-ness. But even at home you don't always belong. Rather, you don't always belong at home.
I left for a while, and I wanted so desperately to get back. To have familiarity around me, because I couldn't find it within myself. I recognized the name they used to address me by. "I remember her," I would say to myself, dim-eyed, shrunken and dark inside a faux shell.
Inward a stranger dwelt, weeping for all that once was, all that could have been. Playing a part, I crafted a mask and clung to a hope that if I could only get back there, things would be alright. I could hide, I could heal, and I could escape.
And yet I am not there. I am here.
Dumped in an ocean of foreign customs and strange accents, sports teams I don't care about and street names I don't recognize, I made no effort to rise. I relished the sensation of sinking, thoroughly bored and full of disdain. Yawning, I sat and watched the water reach my mouth, my nose, my eyes. Air? I have no need for air. I have had enough of that.
But instinct, I've found, is stronger than arrogance. Gulping water laced with pride, my flailing arms broke through the all-too-familiar surface. Somehow, I found footing in deep water.
It isn't home, but I belong.
I wanted to try reading my stuff, so you can hear how it sounds to me. Nifty, eh?